


breathe in, breathe out

by uppercasebread



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Blood, Dreamscape AU, Other, eddie arrives in the dreamscape and startles the shit out fo stan, vague mentions of gore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-15
Updated: 2019-09-15
Packaged: 2020-10-18 19:43:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20644628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uppercasebread/pseuds/uppercasebread
Summary: 30 years had felt so long and so short, so much time that had elapsed without seeing the freckles on Eddie’s cheeks or the bright glimmer in his eyes when he would snap some remark to Richie, to Bill. Now he was here, yes, but he was nothing but a cadaver, a lifeless body that would never move or breathe in that wheezy way again.





	breathe in, breathe out

It had been some time since Eddie had appeared with Stan. A flicker of light, a grown man suddenly shrinking down into a young boy, gaping hole in his chest, lifeless eyes.

Stan had hardly touched him since that first day. Only once, to hook his arms under Eddie’s and lean him against the wall of the alley Stan had once been trapped in.

He didn’t understand it. Why did Eddie join him, if only to die and not reawaken like Stan had? It had been nearly two weeks, and Eddie was dead as he’d been when he’d first arrived. His round little face, cherubic and a deep tan, was spattered with flecks of blood, dark eyes motionless and unseeing. His fingers remained relaxed at his side, black-brown congealed blood sticking his shirt to his skin. Blood trailed from his nose and lips. Stan wished so badly he could get into the stores, get Eddie a rag to clear the blood away from his face. 

His little body was destroyed, the hole in his chest seeming much too large for his small frame. Stan had watched in horror as bruises blossomed like ink in water across his skin only a few hours after he’d died, quite literally, in Stan’s arms. Stan sometimes wished Eddie’d died with his eyes closed. It would’ve made it easier to pretend he was only sleeping.

One benefit, Stan supposed, was that being dead made Eddie a very good listener. Stan whiled away most of his time by recounting his memory to Eddie, telling stories he was frightened every day of losing in the sea of everything else he’d forgotten. His voice carried through the empty streets, bouncing off the walls of the alley and seeming to echo much farther than it should. Eddie himself seemed to absorb some of the sound, but not as if he were listening. 

No, it seemed more like his body acted as a dampener. The soft pile of flesh and clothing in the corner of the alley that Stan knew had a name. The soft pile of flesh and clothing that Stan knew. The soft pile of flesh and clothing that had once been Stan’s best friend. The pile that had said his name in a high voice that every adult winced at. The pile that held his hand when they walked down the street. 

30 years had felt so long and so short, so much time that had elapsed without seeing the freckles on Eddie’s cheeks or the bright glimmer in his eyes when he would snap some remark to Richie, to Bill. Now he was here, yes, but he was nothing but a cadaver, a lifeless body that would never move or breathe in that wheezy way again. 

In the first few days, Stan had scoured every inch of Eddie’s body, trying to find some sort of sign that it was a joke, that it was some fucked up test of his own sanity. His body was exactly how Stan remembered, twiggy, thin, almost seeming a full year younger than the rest of them. His face was still round, with youthful chubby cheeks and thick lashes. His skin had lost some of its color, and if Stan held his hand out he could see that they had the same ephemeral quality.

Gray skin, gray clothes, fragments floating off and spinning away from themselves. They were dead. Yet they stayed here in a recreation of the hometown that had wanted to swallow them whole. 

Stan sat on the sidewalk outside of the alley, feet in the road, head resting on his hands. His elbows dug into his knees, but he couldn’t feel it. The only thing he ever felt was fear and coldness and the queasy illness that apparently came along with being dead. He was keeping a sort of running glossary of his own life lest he forget any of it. 

Since Eddie had arrived, he’d made it up to about the beginning of his twenties- college, not knowing what the  _ hell _ he wanted to do, seeing Patty for the first time on campus.

“I didn’t actually fall for her right away. You know how everyone tells these stories about how their significant other was  _ different _ , that they  _ lit up a room _ ?” He waved his hands in a sort of dreamy motion. “Patty didn’t do that for me, not right away. She was always  _ beautiful _ to me, yeah, but… It wasn’t a love at first sight situation.”

Stan glanced back at Eddie’s body. His eyes didn’t move, lashes didn’t flutter. A drop of blood, ruby pomegranate seed, dripped from his chin. Stan sighed, turning back to the lifeless streets.

“I think we had a lot of classes together. She was always so studious, always on top of everything,” He laughed wetly, pawing at his face. “I left her behind.” 

He took a shuddering breath.

And something else did, too.

Stan whirled around. Eddie’s chest had inflated, his ribs shifting and shuddering under his skin. The inhale was thick and wet, and Eddie began to choke immediately. His eyelids snapped open. Stan stumbled over his own feet to get over to Eddie, his heart pounding a thundering staccato in his chest.

Eddie’s eyes, wild and horrified, rolled in their sockets. They were still distant and empty, he wasn’t fully awake yet. Rattling coughs shook his tiny body, blood flying in sprays from behind his lips. Stan grabbed his shoulders, hauling him to his feet.

“Eddie?!”

Eddie’s arm shot out, grabbing desperately onto Stan’s shirt and tugging him forwards, towards himself. The coughing continued, black eyes still foggy and unfocused.

“S-Stan?” Eddie wheezed. 

Tears began to burn in Stanley’s eyes, and he squeezed Eddie as close to himself as possible.

“Yeah, Eddie, it’s Stan! It’s me, I’m right here, I’m right here…” He murmured, petting Eddie’s hair and trying to soothe him. 

Eddie’s eyes continued to roll, flicking violently from side to side, taking in everything at once. They alighted on the mural, Stan’s face, the streets. He gasped again, a fish out of water, choking on his own two-week-old blood. 

Stan squeezed him tighter. His body convulsed in a pattern- one, two, three, pause. Stan squeezed his eyes shut.

_ One, two, three, pause. _

An inhaler, cold in his palms, fumbling with shaking hands. Yelling, the blood rushing in his ears.

_ One, two, three, pause. _

Warm skin under his hands, warm skin against his lips. The giddy feeling of doing something he shouldn’t be.

_ One, two, three, pause. _

Freckles, two faces, bright, dark eyes. A laugh and a scoff. Long fingers and short legs.

_ One, two, three _

Eddie’s coughing fit stopped as suddenly as it began. Stan gasped, eyes snapping open again. Eddie’s chest was still heaving, but the coughing stopped. His face was spattered with blood, as well as Stan’s chest and neck. His grip on Stan’s shirt loosened. His eyes were lucid, flat black. Stan loosened his own grip, swallowing hard, his pulse rushing in his ears.

“Eddie?”

“Stanley? St- Stanley, wh-what in the fuck?” He asked. Stan’s eyes followed his hand, which pulled away from the gaping hole in his stomach. Fresh blood covered his fingertips.

“Eds… Eddie, you’re dead.”


End file.
